Tell Me How You're Feeling
by FrostRiven
Summary: Anderson versus a psychiatrist... 'nuff said. Chapter three up.
1. Preparation

This was originally intended to be another part of Contextual Comfort, but It's getting out of hand, and so I'm posting it on its own.

Disclaimer:  The usual…  Hellsing no mine.  Anderson no mine  (fortunately for him!)  I'll put 'em back when I'm done playing.

-----

_            Splat._

            A liquidy mix of watered down shaving cream and blonde bristles hit the sink with unerring accuracy.

            Alexander Anderson scowled at the mirror, growling softly to himself and waging, once more, his war against his facial hair.  He scraped a straight razor across his chin, then flicked the greenish foam from the blade with fluid skill.

_            Splat._

            His growl increased in volume and intensity.  His regenerating ability and the accelerated metabolism that accompanied it did more than heal injuries… no, it had some strange side effects as well, including rapid hair and nail growth.  Shaving had become a morning ritual, right after brushing his teeth and before finding enough breakfast to fuel aforementioned metabolism for the morning, and usually he found it calming, almost meditative.

            But the repetitive, soothing motions didn't ease his mind this morning.  Not with the latest orders coming down from Maxwell.

_            Splat._

            Anderson sometimes wondered how Maxwell had gotten into the Church.  He lacked an intimate understanding of faith and of the Will and Word of God, and he certainly didn't understand the passion of being out in the field and doing the Lord's great work.  Of sending the damned back to Hell where they belonged.

            Nah.  Maxwell was a paper-pushing politician, but he was good at it, at least.  

            But this…

_            Splat._

            Anderson looked up at the shaving cream splattered mirror and repressed an urge to smash his fist into it.  His violently short temper was no doubt part of the reason he was being punished.

            And it _was_ a form of punishment.  As only the Vatican could come up with.  It was the Iron Maiden of the modern age, and they were sending him to it.

----

            _"Well, now, Father Anderson… it seems to some of us," Maxwell had coughed discreetly, and Anderson had understood what us he was talking about, "that perhaps it might be best if you saw someone."_

_            There was a long, awkward pause._

_            "Like a… therapist."_

_            Anderson had stood dumb-founded, unable to find words to protest this injustice.  _Wha…?__

_  Maxwell had taken advantage of his stricken silence, pushing on.  "In fact, I insist.  It'll be a good idea, and I know some good doctors who have worked with us before and would understand…"_

_"Worked with us… before?" _

_"Yes, with Yumiko.  They would understand the kind of, uh, career you have and the pressures that go with."_

_Suddenly Anderson's mouth and brain had decided to work together.  "You're what?!"  He had slammed his fists down on Maxwell's large desk, leaning in close.  You're sending a priest to a…!"_

_Maxwell had looked up coldly, frowning.  "Yes, I am.  If you have a problem with this, take it up with the Archdeacon.  I will not tolerate your ranting in my office; I have other important issues to deal with right now.  Your place is to follow orders, not question them!"_

----

The Archdeacon had not been suitably sympathetic, and so Anderson had a morning appointment with one Doctor Dante Benedetto.

Anderson caught himself snarling at his own reflection and forced himself to drop the razor and rise the mentholated cream off.  It didn't do him any good to stand here infuriated.  

He dried his face and wiped his glasses, then took once last glance at the mirror, running a large hand over his short blonde hair.  Good enough for now.  He drew a pair of white gloves over his bare hands, and the barrier between his flesh and the rest of the world was comforting.  The heavy writing on the back caught his eye, and he grinned ferally.  

That_ should give the good doctor something to think about._


	2. Week One

Anderson, being trained in combat skills, analyzed the situation.  The doctor's office was well-organized, sunny, and neat, with a series of windows along the wall opposite the door and bookshelves along the wall to his right.  A desk was pushed against the wall to the left of the door, and the doctor was sitting backward in the black rolling computer chair, watching him.  This left one seat available for him: a gray and green patterned overstuffed armchair.  He frowned at it.  It was facing away from the door, and he thought that this could make a quick, mid-appointment escape difficult.  He lingered in the doorway for another moment.

The doctor, a short, dark fellow with mischevious black eyes and an American sense of fashion, stood up and gestured to him.  "Come in!  You must be Father Anderson."

"Yes," he answered curtly, and resigned himself to the armchair.  It was closer to the ground than was comfortable, and his long legs sprawled out awkwardly in the space between the two chairs.  "Just so there's no misunderstandings between us right away, Dr. Benedetto, I want to be here like I want another hole in my head."  

The smaller man raised a brow at this, but nodded.  "Yes, Father Maxwell said that this might be the case."  He turned back to his desk momentarily, shuffling through stacks of papers until he produced a manilla file folder and a yellow legal pad.  "He also sent me copies of all unclassified relevant information, and I have been briefed on the types of activities that Section Thirteen…"

"I heard that you worked with Yumiko before," Anderson cut him off impatiently.  He didn't actually believe that Maxwell—or any of the supervisors of the Iscariot Division—would actually be idiotic enough to send him off to an uninformed, uncomprehending civilian to discuss the particularities of his life.  "Let's get this over with."

Dr. Benedetto flashed him a smile.  "Certainly; whenever you are ready."  He sat back down—the correct way this time—and leaned back in his seat at an angle, with his legal pad and a pen conveniently at arm's reach on the desk.  "Don't feel restricted by time.  I left my scheduling open today in case this was going well."

Anderson grunted an acknowledgement.  He'd been hoping that—though it would seem longer and be torturous—it would only be a half an hour to an hour, and that afterward he could tell Maxwell that, really, he was feeling much better, thanks, and never have to do this again.  And then take a long, long shower to scrub the filthy presence of the experience from his memory.  He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and steepled his fingers together, wondering if he just kept quiet he'd be sent home.

"So…"  After a long silence, Benedetto flipped through the manilla folder.  "Tell me about the vampire.  Alucard."

Anderson scowled, feeling the tension already gathering in his forehead_.  No, I will _not_ be baited!_  "Are you a Christian man, Doctor?" he asked quietly.

"I don't think that's an issue here."  Benedetto was skimming the folder contents still.  "You have faced this creature twice, and both attempts to dispatching it were futile.  You are devoted to your work and you have been successful in previous dealings with vampires and other demons… what happened here?  How do you feel about this?"

Anderson's eyes flared fox-fire in rage, and his arms snapped down to grip the armrests and he leaned forward.  The low, squatty form of the chair made it difficult for him to get his legs under him to propel him into a forward lunge or standing position quickly, fortunately for the doctor, but due to his tall, lanky frame, he was able to lean surprising close to the other man.  "I _feel_," he emphasized, biting off his words with sharp teeth, "that the thing called Alucard is undead, a walking soulless demon-possessed corpse, and that it is my duty as a devout Catholic and a Paladin of the Holy Church to banish him to the darkest corner of Hell where he will suffer in a lake of fire for all eternity!"  He slammed his large hands down on the chair for punctuation and took a deep breath, building a full head of steam.  "I also _feel_ that I hate that _thing's_ incessant grinning and taunting, that I would love to drive one of my blades through his stupid mouth and cut his demonic, mocking tongue out!  I _would_ have succeeded in destroying him—him and that other!—the first time if it wasn't for that…" there was a minute pause as he groped for an appropriate word "…that woman.  _Sir_ Hellsing," he sneered, settling back into the chair.  "A woman who actually thinks she's capable of surviving in the man's world of business and politics, and she's a heretic as well…  They used to burn women like her at the stake."

Anderson lapsed into a brooding silence, listening to the scritch of Benedetto's pen on the legal pad, then suddenly broke out again, "He shot off my arms!  No one else could have even survived, but did they say anything sympathetic or understanding?  No!  What do I get?  'Why are you such a failure, Anderson?  You know, if you screw up again…'  Some gratitude."

"It sounds," Benedetto kept writing, his face screwed up in concentration, "that you have a great deal of unresolved anger and guilt concerning these incidences.  Would you like to talk about this?"

"We are all guilty of sin and trespass, doctor," Anderson replied smoothly, feeling comforted that he wasn't asking more about Hellsing and that the conversation was straying back into familiar and expected territory.  He was beginning to regret that last outburst and vowed to have better control over himself.  "I confess my sins and perform my penance, and am absolved of my guilt.  Do you?" 

There was a moment when both men simply looked at one another, then Benedetto returned to writing in his pad.  "I'll take it that's a no.  You seem very passionate about your faith and your career, Father, however…" he hesitated, "… your superiors have expressed a displeasure with your preoccupation with the Hellsing Organization and what occurred there."

Anderson bared his teeth, a low growl vibrating his broad chest.  "I am aware of that."  He glared viciously, remembering Alucard's idiot grin, the one he wore as Anderson snarled only inches from his face, disarmed and helpless.  "He's one of the most powerful nosferatu that the division has ever faced, and certainly the most powerful we've dealt with in the last hundred years… and protected by an organization devoted to the destruction of his kind!  Him and that other one both!"

"Ceres Victoria."  Benedetto had reshuffled the stack of papers.

It was not quite a question, and Anderson looked up sharply.  "Is that what his spawn used to be?"  He gave a short, barking laugh.  "Yes…  that one too."  He shifted uncomfortably in irritation, trying to find something to do with his legs.  "Heh… a fledgling, and I couldn't destroy her either," he snarled bitterly, clenching his hands.  "She makes me look a fool, her and Alucard both."

Benedetto frowned at him, tapping his fingers rhythmically against the desk corner, the slight noise seeming loud in the quiet room.  "You are doing very well… but I feel that maybe we would make more progress if you would let me hypnotize you… would you consent to this procedure?"

"We used to burn people like you at the stake, too."  Anderson grinned, his eyes lighting up, once more folding his hands in front of him in a contemplative gesture, almost as though he was praying.

Benedetto did not seem impressed by this, but flipped to a new page in his legal pad and wrote something down.  Anderson wondered idly what he kept making notes on, and decided that he didn't like having some stranger dissect his mind with all the understanding and finesse of a chimpanzee using a spoon for heart surgery.  Then a terrible thought floated evilly through his mind… _Why am I sitting here just taking this abuse?  I may be stuck here and forced to go through with it, but that doesn't mean I need to play along…  _His grin widened to maniacal proportions, and a soft snicker escaped him, causing the doctor to look up in something close to alarm.

"Yes?"

"Doctor Benedetto, lemme tell you about what I like to do."  The doctor nodded and gestured for him to continue.  "I like to kill things, doctor.  And I'm good at it, and so I get to do it often.  Though…" he paused in mock thoughtfulness, "… it's not really killing because they're already dead, but in essence, I am killing the body that the demons inhabit.  And I like that.  I like it a lot."  He kept his tone light and earnest, and it wasn't difficult; he was being truthful, if exaggerating a little.  "I like the meaty thump of my blades meeting their damned flesh; I like watching them return to the dust from which they came and be scattered by the wind.  And I _love_ it when they fight back… the useless, pathetic strugglings of a creature less than human as its tries to hold onto its unholy unlife, as it tries to tempt me into believing that it has a thinking mind and soul.  They know that they are hell-bound, and scream in protest… and I love it; I love doing the Lord's work."

"Uh-huh," the doctor responded, looking at him strangely.  He had paused in his note-taking to stare at Anderson, and the priest was amused and a little gratified to see that this had shaken him.

"God guides my hand…" he murmured, remembering for a brief moment the day he was ordained, then he grinned again, playing.  "I _love_ killing things.  And I dream of driving my swords through the undead flesh of Hellsing's pets."  _And the twisting the blades, just to get the point across…_

Benedetto looked at him for a long time, his head propped up on the heel of his hand, his elbow on the desk.  "Are you perchance familiar with any of the ideas of Sigmund Freud?"  His pen drew lazy circles on the paper.

Anderson raised a single brow elegantly, confused at first as to the nature of the question, then froze, staring in horror.  For a merciful moment, his rage was so complete that it kept him immobile, then a strangled, inarticulate, indignant yell escaped his lips and he was blinded by white-hot fury.  When he could see again, he realized that he had somehow sprung up from his seat and had pinned the doctor against the desk, and was making a good attempt to throttle him.  He frowned, and released Benedetto's lapels, smoothing them out carefully.  "Beg your pardon," he muttered, not feeling very sorry at all, then noticed that the yellow legal pad had fallen to the floor.  Anderson stared at it, fighting the horribly tempting urge to pick it up and read it.  

_I should see what he's going to be telling Maxwell; I'll be better armed with the proper information and can begin planning a response to it not…  I'll never get an opportunity like this again.  _

_No!  No, no.  It's not right; it's none of my business.  It doesn't matter what this poor man thinks of me, I'm a righteous man, and he can't say anything to hurt me._

He sighed, then reached and picked the tablet up, thrusting it out to the doctor with a grimace of distaste.  Against his will, his eyes picked up the words "violently aggressive" and "paranoid."  After Benedetto took it with a quiet word of thanks he wiped his hand on his pants, as though he'd touched something dirty.  

"Err…"  Benedetto seemed at a loss, and Anderson silenced him with an angry glance.  

"I'm going home now," he said, leaning over the smaller man threateningly for a moment before whirling away—sending his coat out behind him—and heading for the door.  

He was already out into the hallway when he heard Benedetto's voice calling, "See you next week, Father!"

Anderson snarled in response.

_ That'll be a cold day in hell!_

--------

What actually popped into my head when writing this was a section 

of "Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie, where he is talking about going 

through inspection for the draft, and seeing the psychiatrist:
    
    "And I walked in and sat down and they gave me a piece of paper, said, 
    
    'Kid, see the phsychiatrist, room 604.'
    
    And I went up there, I said, 'Shrink, I wanna kill.  I mean, I wanna… 
    
    I wanna kill.  Kill.  I wanna… I wanna see… I wanna see blood and gore 
    
    and guts, and veins in my teeth.  Eat dead burnt bodies. I mean kill, _kill_, 
    
    **_kill,_** **_KILL_!**'  
    
    And I started jumpin up and down yelling, 'Kill!  Kill!' and he started 
    
    jumpin' up and down with me and we was both jumpin' up and down yelling,
    
    'Kill!  Kill!'  
    
    And the sergeant came over, pinned a medal on me, sent me down the hall, 
    
    said, "You're our boy."
    
    Didn't feel too good about it."
    
    Seems appropriate!  ^_^ 

(Dang Anderson!  He keeps insisting on being much more in character that I intended… oops!)


	3. Interlude

It'd been a quiet six days.  

Anderson had been expecting a summery meeting with Maxwell within two days—three, tops—of his appointment with Dr. Benedetto, but there had been no such message.

He was beginning to get nervous.

No news usually wasn't good news in Iscariot.  

He was sitting on the edge of his bed, half-listening to the TV news report and sharpening his swords, when the request for a meeting finally came.  He tucked the blades into his coat and patted them, assured.  Though he would not need swords for this confrontation, he felt more comfortable with them.  He slipped his hand into one of the coat's deep pockets and fingered the rosary beads there, counting off a decade almost unconsciously as he walked.

_Kyrie eleison me._

Anderson stopped outside the large double doors and took a deep breath, trying to rearrange his face into an expression of calm neutrality.  _For all I know, I'm being sent out to work.  This may not have anything with the doctor.  I might even get another chance to return to England!_  He bared his teeth in a savage cross between a snarl and smile, then frowned slowly.  _The thought of another rematch with Hellsing's pet should not excite me so much… this is why I am being punished_.  He ran a gloved hand through his freshly-cut hair, then knocked once and entered.

Enrico Maxwell glanced up from the stack of papers in from of him, and Anderson walked forward until he reached the large shining walnut desk.  Maxwell did not ask or gesture for him to sit, but he was more comfortable on his feet anyway and did not make a move to take a seat.  

"Yes, Father?"

Maxwell rested his elbows on the desktop, his hands clasped together with his pale face pressed against them, and he stared at Anderson for a long, uncomfortable minute.  "The scholarly article that you submitted to the Catholic Theological Association is excellent work, Father Anderson," he said finally.  "Of course, you have the experience of dealing with demons and other unholy creatures; few others have the necessary knowledge to detail such a comprehensive analysis of the nature of evil. We'll also be keeping a copy for our records, of course."

"Of course."  Anderson waited.  He knew that he hadn't been called down here to chat about his dissertation on the continued necessity of the Catholic Church's acknowledgement of Satan and the use of exorcism.  _Though_, he mourned for a moment privately, _it is nice to have someone appreciate it, even as an opening to the rest of the conversation_.  He was required, for some inexplicable reason, to write at least one scholarly theological essay a year, along with teaching in the orphanage and slaughtering the undead.  The research for this paper had driven him to distraction; he wasn't a very organized man and he had kept losing his notes and outlines, and then had to go back and look up large chunks of information—three times.  Actually writing the bloody thing was worse… Heinkel had laughed when he'd finally snapped and chucked one of the Vatican's laptops out an open window in a fit of rage, sending one of his blades out after it.  In retrospect, he supposed he couldn't blame her.  

Maxwell hesitated very briefly, and Anderson wondered if he would throw up another smokescreen—ask about the boys in the orphanage, perhaps—before he got down to business.  He did not, and Anderson was both grateful and apprehensive.

"Father, I received a letter from Dr. Benedetto…"

Anderson tensed, struggling to maintain a blank expression.

"…and it's… less than encouraging."  Maxwell unfolded his hands and picked up a letter, skimming it as he talked.  "Even considering the nature of your work, and the emotional stress involved, he is worried and recommends you return for subsequent visits."

Anderson scowled petulantly, fighting the urge to bare his teeth in disgust like a cat.  "I think I'd prefer the rack.  Or thumbscrews."

"Now be reasonable, Father..."

"The boot?"  Anderson raised a brow.  "A wire jacket?  The wheel?"

"This is only torture because you choose to see it as such…"

"I'm even willing to replace the lab rats in the basement… I don't mind; they can do whatever they want to me."

"…and maybe you should see it as a learning experience, instead."  Maxwell was undeterred, and frowned at Anderson's repeat offers to subject himself to some of the worse invented by the Inquisition instead of simply accepting psychological therapy.  "You're just being childish.  You know that this was coming for a while.  Especially after the incident in the rose gardens. "

This silenced Anderson, and he shuffled uncomfortable, his eyes lowered to the floor.  _Hoped they'd forgotten that… but no, of course they didn't._

"Now.  You will go and see Dr. Benedetto again, and you will cooperate with him.  And you will go as long as he thinks you need to.  You are dismissed."

Anderson nodded with a heavy sigh and headed for the door.  Maxwell's voice stopped him as his hand touched the handle.  

            "And try not to strangle him this week, please, Father."

-------

Ok, so my version of Anderson has a strange sense of humor.  That's OK, right?  ^_^

"Kyrie eleison me" means "Lord have mercy on me."

The Inquisition still exists in the Catholic Church, but it was recently renamed the Congregation of the Doctrine of the Faith, and doesn't do anything interesting anymore… or so we think.  I personally think that Section XIII would fall under the Congregation.  

Mental image for you:  Anderson with Inquisition-style torture equipment.  O.o 


End file.
